Take No Farewell - Retail (34 page)

It was a mild night, but the streets were quiet. I reached Southwark Bridge early and had time to smoke two cigarettes before Malahide loomed out of the shadows beyond the nearest street-lamp.

‘A pleasure to see you, Mr Staddon.’

‘You have the letter?’

‘I do.’ He pulled a crumpled envelope from his jacket. ‘And you have the money?’

I held up the packet for him to see. ‘A hundred and fifty in five pound notes.’

He placed the envelope on the parapet of the bridge. As I made to pick it up, he covered my hand with his. ‘You’ll not mind waiting till I’ve counted it, will you?’

He tore open the packet and leafed through the wad of notes, one by one, reckoning under his breath as he went. Then, with a nod, he expressed his satisfaction. ‘You’re a gentleman, Mr Staddon.’

I slipped the letter out of its envelope, noted the two pages
covered
in a neat, feminine hand, then tucked them into my pocket. ‘Well, our business is concluded, I think. Excuse me.’

‘A moment more of your time, Mr Staddon.’ His hand rested lightly on my elbow. I could have shaken it off, but did not.

‘What is it?’

‘A favour, you might say.’

‘You have a nerve.’

‘It’s a small thing, too small for you to ’grudge me.’

‘Well?’

‘As I was leaving Luckham Place after our little chat the other day, I bumped into a gent in the hall. Big, fancy sort of fellow. Nasty eyes. Puffing at a cigar long enough to fire a salute from. Know who I mean?’

‘Yes. I believe I do.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘Turnbull. Major Royston Turnbull. A business associate of my father-in-law.’

‘Is he, now? Still at Luckham Place, far as you know?’

‘Staying the week, I believe. Why do you ask?’

He smiled and tapped his nose, as he had once before. ‘No need for you to worry about that.’

‘You must have had a reason for asking.’

‘I thought I might know him from somewhere.’

‘And do you?’

‘No.’ He shook his head vigorously. ‘What would a “business associate” of
Sir
Ashley Thornton be having to do with the likes of me? I ask you.’

‘That’s just it. You
did
ask me.’

‘Well, maybe I thought I recognized him, but, now you’ve put a name to him, I reckon I must have been wrong.’ He grinned. ‘I’ll bid you good night, Mr Staddon. And happy reading.’ With that, he hurried away.

I was about to call after him when something stopped me. Lizzie Thaxter’s letter was more important than Malahide’s interest in Turnbull. Besides, I knew the fellow too well to
think
I would learn anything from him against his will. I set off in the opposite direction.

Ten minutes later, in a quiet corner of a pub in Garlick Hill, I took the envelope from my pocket. It was addressed to P. A. Thaxter, Esq., c/o H. M. Prison, Gloucester, and was postmarked Hereford, 19 July 1911: the day before Lizzie’s death. What it contained was, in a sense, her last testament, its significance for my own past unknown till now, more than twelve years later, I nervously opened it and began to read.

Clouds Frome,

Mordiford,

Herefordshire.

19th July 1911

My dearest brother,

I am sorry, but I will not be coming to see you tomorrow, as I said I would. I have thought it all through, Peter, time after time, and there only seems to be one answer.

If only you had not let yourself be talked into stealing. It was my downfall as well as yours. And all for that stupid dream of a roller-skating rink. But for that, Mr Caswell could not have forced me to be his spy. Then he would not have known about my mistress and Mr Staddon. They could have been happy and so could I. All this hurt because you had to be greedy.

My poor mistress is most to be pitied. Mr Staddon has thrown her over, as I knew he would. She thought she would be starting a new life with him in London, but I knew better all along. And now she is beside herself with the grief of it. She has done nothing wrong, but still she suffers. I do not believe she will ever get over it.

But that is not the worst of it. What I
cannot
bear is the deceit. Letting her think I am loyal. And all the time telling on her to her husband, showing him her letters, warning him of her plans. I have no choice. I have to do as he says. But I cannot endure it any longer, Peter, I cannot.

I have tried to find another way out of this, but there is no other way. He will go on using me. He will never stop. Unless I am no longer here to be used.

It will all be over by the time you read this, pray God, if I can keep my courage up. And I will. You always used to say I was your plucky little sister. Well, tonight I shall prove it.

Do not show Mum and Dad this letter. It would break their hearts. Explain it to them when you get out if you feel they can bear it. Keep up your spirits, Peter. Do not let them break you just because they have broken me. Remember me as your loyal and loving sister.

Lizzie.

I read the letter through for a second time, trying to imagine Lizzie, alone, in her tiny room at Clouds Frome, penning this last farewell to her brother, explaining as best she could why she had decided to end her life. I looked at the postmark again: Hereford, 7.30 p.m., 19 July 1911. She must have walked into the village to post it that afternoon, then made her way back, knowing the die was cast, knowing that, before the next dawn, she would slip from the house, a length of rope in her hand, and steal down to the orchard, never to return.

And what of me? ‘
Mr Staddon has thrown her over, as I knew he would
.’ I wanted to protest to her that she could not have been certain I would desert Consuela, but she was dead and my own memories rose to defend her judgement. Why had she been weeping that morning when I delivered the note to her room? Why had she stared at it in horror? Because she had known I would bring it and what it would mean when I did.

Much that had once been obscure was now only too clear. Victor had arranged for the Thornton commission to be dangled before me immediately prior to the Clouds Frome house-warming because he knew from Lizzie that Consuela and I were planning to run away together immediately
afterwards.
As our messenger and confidante, Lizzie had known our every secret. Therefore, so had Victor. Indeed, the full extent of his knowledge hardly bore contemplation. The endearments we had written, the trysts we had kept, the intimacies we had exchanged. Of all of them he had been aware and of all of them tolerant – until the time had come to call a halt.

What was not clear was
why
Lizzie had betrayed us. It had something to do with her brother’s imprisonment, but what it was I could not discern. She had never tried to hide the fact that she was Peter Thaxter’s sister. Yet she had written: ‘
But for that, Mr Caswell could not have forced me to be his spy
.’ Something else, then, held the answer, something deeper and worse than disgrace by association, something she could not bring herself to admit even in the last letter she had ever written.

‘What will you do with it?’ asked Imry, when he had finished reading the letter. ‘Destroy it?’

I shook my head. Imry was in London for the day and we were lunching at his club. Less than twenty-four hours had elapsed since Lizzie’s letter had come into my possession. But already I had decided what must be done with it. ‘When this is all over,’ I said, ‘when it can’t do any harm, I shall give it to Lizzie’s family. It’s rightfully theirs, I think.’

‘Oh, I agree. And meanwhile?’

‘Meanwhile, I intend to have matters out with Victor Caswell.’

‘Yes. I thought you might.’

‘I expect you’d advise me not to.’

‘Not this time, Geoff. The past is generally best left to its own devices, in my opinion. But there are exceptions. And I’m inclined to think this is one.’

I had recounted to him the circumstances of my parting from Angela and winced now at the memory of them. ‘I’ve been a damn fool, haven’t I, Imry?’

‘Yes. But you’re not unusual in that. We all are, sooner or
later.
It’s just that most people’s foolishness doesn’t catch up with them as conclusively as yours has.’

‘Antagonizing Sir Ashley won’t be good for business.’

‘I shouldn’t let that worry you.’

‘What will Angela do, do you think?’

‘She’s your wife, Geoff, not mine. But, for what it’s worth, I think she’ll divorce you.’

‘So do I.’

‘Will you try to stop her? To patch it up?’

‘I don’t know. To be honest, I’m not sure I care enough to make the effort.’

‘You ought to. Remember, hitting her as you did, in front of witnesses, is going to make you look like the guilty party. But, from what you tell me, her friendship with Major Turnbull is intimate enough to justify your behaviour, or at least to excuse it.’

‘I don’t want to drag in any of that. In fact, I don’t want to justify my behaviour – as you put it – at all.’

‘You must – in your own interests.’

‘That’s just it, Imry. Don’t you see? I’ve brought all this about by putting
my
interests first, above those even of the people I’ve claimed to love. Well, not any more. From now on, I steer by a different star.’

‘And that star is?’

‘It doesn’t have a name. But it has a purpose. One I intend to serve to the full extent of my ability – without regard to self.’

‘Oh, that has a name, Geoff. It’s called honour. Downfall of many a man.’ He smiled. ‘And the salvation of just a few.’

To say that I was surprised to receive a letter from Hermione Caswell the following morning would be an understatement. I was even more surprised by its enclosure: a sealed envelope addressed to me in Jacinta’s handwriting. Hermione’s covering note read as follows.

Fern Lodge,

Aylestone Hill,

Hereford.

2nd January 1924

Dear Mr Staddon,

Jacinta has asked me to forward this letter to you. She is no longer free to come and go at Clouds Frome and certainly not at liberty to correspond with persons of whom her father disapproves. You are evidently one of these. You know me better than to think, however, that Victor’s opinion counts for anything with me. When Jacinta found an opportunity over Christmas to tell me of the restrictions he has imposed upon her, I told her that I would be more than happy to post letters for her and to pass on replies. So, should you wish to reply, please write to me at the above address, enclosing whatever message you wish me to convey. This will reach Jacinta as soon as circumstances permit.

Jacinta has forbidden me to enquire into her reasons for writing to you and I have mastered my curiosity sufficiently to comply. It is no breach of confidence to tell you, however, that the imminence of her mother’s trial and the contemplation of its probable outcome has much depressed the poor child. If it lies within your power to relieve her anxiety in any way, I would urge you to do so.

Sincerely yours,

Hermione E. Caswell.

I at once tore open Jacinta’s letter and read it.

Clouds Frome,

Mordiford,

Herefordshire.

31st December 1923

Dear Mr Staddon,

I have heard nothing from you since we met in London at the start of this week. I am worried, because I know my mother’s trial will soon begin and nobody here will tell me
anything
about it. Since we returned from France, I have not been allowed to leave the house unless my father or Miss Roebuck comes with me. Miss Roebuck takes me to church in Hereford every Sunday. Otherwise, I never go anywhere and nobody visits us apart from members of the family. I thought about it a great deal before asking Aunt Hermione to help me, but I had to ask somebody and she is the only person I ever see who I feel I can trust.

None of the family apart from Aunt Hermione ever mentions my mother now, or her trial. But I hear the servants gossiping. Banyard, Noyce, Gleasure and Mabel Glynn are going up to London soon because they have to give evidence. My father will go as well. Aunt Hermione has told me that the trial will open on 14th January. That means there is hardly any time left. They all think my mother will be found guilty. I can tell that. If she is, they will hang her. We have to help her, Mr Staddon. We have to do something. But what?

Please write soon. Please tell me you know what to do. Please say you are not as helpless as I am.

Yours truly,

Jacinta Caswell.

Crowding about me as I read Jacinta’s letter came the recriminations inspired by my futile attempts to save Consuela. I had assured myself – as well as Jacinta – that some way of doing so must exist and that I would not rest until I had found it. And yet, more than two months later, what had I accomplished? Nothing, save perhaps the ruin of my own marriage. Nothing, it was certain, likely to sway the judge and jury who would shortly decide Consuela’s fate.

I hurried into the study and wrote an immediate reply to Hermione.

27 Suffolk Terrace,

Kensington,

London W8.

4th January 1924

Dear Miss Caswell,

Thank you for your letter and for alerting me to your niece’s state of mind. I propose to travel to Hereford tomorrow and to lodge for a few days at the Green Dragon. I would be greatly obliged if you could meet me during my stay and would suggest a message left at the hotel, stating where and when might be convenient, as the most sensible arrangement. You will appreciate that I cannot express the full urgency of my request in a letter. Be assured, however, that this matter is of overwhelming importance to me. The value of any assistance you feel able to offer at this crucial time is consequently impossible to exaggerate.

Yours sincerely,

Geoffrey Staddon.

I posted the letter on my way to Frederick’s Place. I spent the rest of the day hard at work, consumed by an exhilaration born of the knowledge that I was committed to a new course of action. I telephoned Windrush in Hereford and he agreed to dine with me at the Green Dragon the following evening. From him I hoped to learn the harsh truth about Consuela’s prospects. From others, whom I did not propose to forewarn of my visit, I hoped to learn a still harsher truth: what had really happened, and why, at Clouds Frome the afternoon Rosemary Caswell had swallowed a fatal dose of arsenic.